


Shine Light into Darkness

by unrulyson



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Dutch dies like right after Arthur, F/F, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Religious Discussion, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Suicide, fuck the rdr plot john is happy, fuck timelines i guess, not sure what else to tag this with yet lol, probably ha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2020-03-09 21:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18925081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrulyson/pseuds/unrulyson
Summary: Before the soul can find peace, it must attend to unfinished business.In which Arthur Morgan returns to the land of the living.





	1. Chapter 1

Inhale. Exhale. Murky grey, a vague recognition of limbs. Legs, arms, hands, feet. Eyelids struggle to open against their own heaviness, a deep-set feeling of exhaustion situated within the chest. Floating then, drifting in and out, reaching for something. Something solid. Inhale. Exhale.

Falling, and hitting the ground hard.

Inhale. Inhale. Inhale. The deepest breath he's had in a long while. The anticipation of pain. Searing, red, ache in his lungs that radiates through every inch of his body, leaving him spent, gasping and sputtering. It does not come. Solid ground beneath him, he grasps, blades of grass tickling fingertips. He digs them in, feeling the dirt push beneath his nails, soft earth collapsing in his strong hands. Exhale. He curls his toes, experimentally, the bending of leather boots. Ringing in his ears, then something muffled, slowly becoming clearer. Prairie song, birds and crickets, chirp, and his own breathing, easy and clear.

His eyes flutter now, glimpses of bright light pierce through blackness. They open. First the world is white, the shock of the sun is blinding. Then, slowly, the colors melt into view. Blue morning painted with translucent clouds. He sits up, the burden in his chest residing. The land around him is tall grass, shades of gold and green shimmering with a gentle breeze. Smatterings of wild flowers jump out into view, lively scarlet, and pale blue compete for the eye.

The smell. Familiar, comforting, the heartiness of a campfire, drifts into his nostrils, lingering and tickling, ever so slightly, in the back of his throat. The kind of smell that sticks to your skin, seeps into your clothes, the kind of smell that doesn't leave you. He stands, stumbling to his feet like a newborn foal. But just as the foal does, he finds his senses quickly. His feet are attuned to the rockiness of the ground that prairie grass hides. He turns around now, spotting a black plume of smoke lazily dancing up into the air, waltzing with the wind. He makes his way towards it, the grass crunches beneath his boots, and his belt clicks with each step. He stops short of the camp, instinctively, checking it out from a distance.

A lone figure sits on a wooden stool by the crackling fire. His back is turned, and he's humming. A silver horse stands near the stranger, grazing. A heartbeat quickens, and urgent footsteps close the distance between the two.

"Son, it's good to finally see you."

Arthur Morgan collapses in front of Hosea Matthews. A firm hand grips his shoulder, and he looks up. Hosea stares back with a soft smile, he pats his shoulder a few times before withdrawing his hand.

"Easy, Arthur." Arthur stares in disbelief as Hosea folds the book in his lap closed. He sets it aside and motions to another one of the stools by the fire.

"Join me, won't you?" Arthur does so without a word. He takes a moment to take Hosea in, his white-gray hair, and the deep laughter lines and crows feet that admonish his skin.

"Now I know you aren't much for words, Arthur, but I expected a bit more excitement on your part," Hosea jokes, and laughs in a self satisfied manner.

"Hosea, you're dead." Arthur blurts.

"So are you, my dear boy." Hosea responds in kind. Memories flood back to him, John, the cliff, Micah, and...Dutch too.

"Hosea, Dutch he..."

"Yeah." There's a silence between them. It's strained, Hosea's adam's apple bobs, his lips are pulled tight, but they slowly fade into a sad smile. He chuckles, and then sighs.

"How long was I out for? The darkness, I mean, where the hell was _that_?"

"I can't say for certain, son. It's different for everyone, all I know, is that it took you long enough to come around. I've been waiting on you."

Hosea looks thoughtful for a moment after responding, his wise eyes staring off into the distance. Arthur's stomach aches with emotion, how much he missed Hosea, it wasn't something he could put into words. No, especially not him, he wasn't good with those anyway.

"You see, It's like a transitory space, where you stay until you're all sorted out. A place to rest, and to think, at least for me. Don't imagine you're too keen on thinking." Hosea winks at him. Arthur rolls his eyes at the teasing.

"So you was waiting on me?"

"Indeed. Your soul is a restless one, son."

"Felt like sleeping, a real deep one, the kind you get after a night of lot's of drinking." Arthur mumbles.

"An interesting description, Arthur." Hosea eyes him with a wry smile.

"You ain't changed, huh?" Arthur manages to share a small laugh with Hosea.

"What's happened then, do you know, did John and his family make it?" He asks suddenly, panic rising in his throat. He did everything he could for them, but it would be just his luck if John's fool ass had turned around.

"They made it, son. You did good." Arthur nods and lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"That bastard, Micah, and Dutch better stay the hell away from them." The thought of that rat Micah going anywhere near that family made his blood boil. He hoped the piece of shit got everything that was coming to him and more. 

"Well I don't think they'll need to worry about Old Dutch, at least." Arthur's mind flashes back for a second, remembering the conflicted and pained expression on Dutch van der Linde's face, but more importantly, he remembers him walking away, like some damn coward. He would have sympathy for Hosea's sake.

"Hosea, I'm..."

"It's alright, Arthur." They share a look of understanding then. Arthur nods and leaves it at that.

They sit for a moment longer, the bird song is faint in the background. The clouds drift gently along the sky. The sun shines overhead, not oppressive, but pleasantly warm, the kind of warm feeling you get after you have your first drink. Or after you pet a dog. A small herd of does and yearlings strut along the hillsides a ways off, accompanied by a large buck. A fawn stumbles after them. The buck waits up for it, making sure it's safe before continuing. After a few minutes, Arthur speaks up.

"This Hell?" Arthur questions.

"Does it look like Hell, Arthur?" Hosea questions back. He raises an eyebrow at him. Arthur looks at the scenery around him, once again.

"No, no it don't. Looks more like..." Arthur trails off. He feels fidgety all of a sudden, uncomfortable in his own skin, he wants to slip away and hide.

"Like Heaven," Hosea finishes the sentence for him and looks at him. The gaze he holds is as intense now as it was when he was alive. He's studying Arthur, taking him apart and putting him back together, something he could always do, even with Arthur's best poker face. Arthur grunts and nods, he strokes his beard a bit, a nervous tick.

"Didn't uh," he clears his throat, " didn't reckon I'd end up a place like here is all."

"No, neither did I, son, neither did I." Hosea takes out a pipe and lights it. He puffs it and blows a ring of smoke. Arthur looks around now, eyes narrowed a bit with suspicion.

"Where are the angels and all that?" Hosea shakes his head and takes another drag off his pipe.

"Seems to me, son, that Heaven is what you make of it."

"What you mean, old man?" Arthur tries to hide his confusion. He'd never been much of a believer in anything, but he wasn't quite sure that's how it should work.

"Well, Arthur, there's a God, and there isn't. There's a Heaven, and there isn't. What you see, all around you, is subjective. Some folk might see the pearly gates and all, but for two men like us, this here's our paradise. It's all we've ever wanted, waited on, to be able to be free. Nothing better." Arthur nods and stares into fire, watching the flames jump and frolic with each other. Though everything about this place should feel like home, Arthur feels grossly out of place now, sticking out like a sore thumb. He thinks, briefly, that it wouldn't matter how this place looked, he wouldn't fit.

"Hosea, I'm a bad man."

Somewhere off in the distance, the yapping and laughter of coyotes echo. The herd of deer in the distance pick up the pace, disappearing over the horizon. Arthur watches them go. In his head, he wishes them luck. He puts his head in his hands. The feeling of being able to breath freely, it almost feels wrong. Like he somehow weaseled his way out of a well-deserved punishment.

Hosea shifts his stool closer to Arthur and pats his back. He nods silently, waiting for the younger man to continue.

"I shouldn't be here. I don't belong...anywhere, it was a comfort to me to think that I'd just fade, that I wouldn't exist no more. Existing isn't something I deserve," Arthur rubs at his temples, "This just don't feel right."

"I'd been told you'd say something like that. Seems like you might have some unfinished business that needs tending to."

"Unfinished business? I barely had any sort of business when I was  _alive_ , Hosea." Arthur spent most of his life following Dutch, robbing, killing, hurting people. The rest of it, he spent sick as a hound and half out of his wits. He hadn't really had the time to make many choices for himself.

"And that's part of the problem."

"I don't follow." 

"My boy, I'm meeting you here to send you on your way, back to earth."

"Beg you pardon, Hosea?" Arthur stares at Hosea like he's grown a second head. Hosea waves him off and puts his pipe in his mouth before stretching. 

"Call it purgatory, if you so please, a place to discover your true self, something I reckon you never quite got the chance to do," Hosea extinguishes his pipe and exhales his last cloud of smoke. The both of them watch as it vanishes into nothing.

"This is my unfinished business, Arthur Morgan. To see you happy, to have something in your life that's truly for yourself. I know I should have stopped Dutch long before everything went to hell and back. This is my way of saying sorry. For the both of us. The worst thing we ever stole were the lives of you kids. And for what?" Hosea sputters, emotion gripping at his throat like a vice, and it's Arthur's turn to comfort Hosea. He gently places his hand over the old man's. 

"Weren't your fault, Hosea, you always stood up for me." Arthur squeezes Hosea's hand and he nods. He chokes out a small sob, but shakes it off.  

"You might not want to for yourself, but promise, for me, that you'll try to see what I see, what I've always seen, in you. Promise me, son."

"I-I promise, Hosea." Hosea smiles, warmly, and wraps Arthur in an unexpected hug. Arthur, caught off guard, is still for a moment, but returns it.

"So does that mean I'm gonna be one of those damn ghosts, like Reverend Swanson would babble on about then?" Hosea hoots out a laugh and smacks his knee.

"Yes, indeed it does, dear boy."

Again, silence hangs over them. Arthur stands up now, and clicks his tongue at Silver Dollar who approaches him from his grazing spot and lowers his head. Arthur strokes his nose.

"Good boy. You take good care of, Hosea, you understand me?" The horse snorts and nudges Arthur. The velvety skin of his nose brushes against the roughness of Arthur's cheek. 

The colors around Arthur start to blur, Hosea's image growing more faint. He can feel it, the floating feeling again, the unfamiliarity of his own body, and the weight. Before the darkness envelopes his vision he whispers, "I missed you."

"I know."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly an experiment for fun since I don't write much and usually draw! I'm not super confident about it, but I'm excited to try to play around with this and just have fun! Hope y'all enjoyed. Sorry if the characterization is off ahshdh, and also that it's short, other chapters should be longer!
> 
> *minor grammar edits


	2. Chapter 2

This time Arthur wakes with a start, eyes open wide and chest heaving. Slowly, his breathing evens outs, and he takes a moment to take in his surroundings. A pretty hillside, the sun is warm and the breeze gently brushes against his face. It's the perfect spot, he thinks, stumbling to his feet. He turns around to survey the rest of the area, and is met with the sight of a grave. Not just any grave, but his own. It's funny, he thinks, in a way, an ironic and morbid way, but funny all the same for Hosea to have dumped him right on his own damn burial. It's a pretty thing though, a cross adorned with a circular decoration.

"Arthur Morgan. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness," he reads out loud. There are bright yellow-orange and wine colored flowers that spring forth from the site, waving softly from the light breeze. He squats down and runs his fingers across the wood, it's expertly carved, and cleverly crafted. Arthur feels his stomach flip, someone took their time with  _his_ grave. He can scarcely bring himself to believe that. It's just so damn gorgeous, much more than anything he ever thought he'd be given, much more than he deserved. If he's honest with himself, he wouldn't have expected to be buried at all.

By habit he reaches for the satchel that normally hangs by his side to sketch the view, but ends up awkwardly patting his hip. John. He recalls the young man leaving with his satchel, one last goodbye. He can see his eyes, teary and frantic, begging Arthur to come with. 

He doesn't dwell much on this, however, as he hears a gentle nicker, pulling him from his thoughts. He turns slowly as not to startle the creature, and he's greeted by a golden and cream colored overo paint with soft, blue eyes. He can't help the big smile that cracks his face as the small mare steps forward and nudges into his chest before lifting her head and playfully nibbling at his hair. His breath hitches, and his voice is shaky.

"Hey, girl," he whispers, his thick, rough fingers find their way into her soft mane, massaging the crest of her neck fondly. Sunflower, the horse he took to the grave with him, his sweet mare. He'd hadn't even been able to bury her, had only the briefest moment to thank her for everything she'd done for him. She'd carried him for miles and miles, took him home when he was half dead after his encounter with the O'Driscolls, and offered him quiet company when the gang was driving him crazy. She was damn near an extension of his own self. His eyes burn as tears swell up and spill down his cheeks, though he's silent. He notes the saddle on her, as well as some guns. He checks the saddlebag, and inside is a small, leather-bound journal. Mentally, he thanks Hosea, wherever he may be. 

The mare picks up her head suddenly, her ears twitching towards the sound of hoofbeats coming closer.

"Shit," Arthur hisses under his breath, who in the hell would be coming to see his grave anyway? Maybe it was just some poor soul who was lost, but he wasn't about to risk it. He contemplates Sunflower for a second, and he hurriedly, but carefully, goads her down the slope. She's likely just barely visible, but not much more can be done to hide a horse on a rocky hillside like this. Arthur himself scrambles behind one of the larger boulders, watching for the approaching rider. The hoofbeats grow closer before stopping just a few feet away. Arthur peeks out from his hiding spot to observe the visitor.

Charles Smith hops off his horse, a grey roan sabino, and strokes its nose. He removes a wreath of flowers from the horse's back and approaches the grave. Arthur stares, unable to determine what emotion is currently happening within him, he's sweating now, his heart pounding against his rib cage, threatening to break free. The other man squats and places the hand-woven wreath over the grave marker. He places his hand on the ground, palm flat and fingers splayed, he closes his eyes and sighs. He stays just like that for a while. There's something intimate, something precious about the moment, something Arthur would like to write about. It's almost as if he can feel the heat from Charles' hand, distant, but present all the same, a sort of calmness winding its way through him, relaxing tensed muscles and soothing the fluttering of his heart. His own eyes shut, for just a moment.

Charles' withdraws his hand and examines the crushed grass where Arthur was just previously. He seems a bit perplexed, and his fingers gently pass over the wooden marker now, the familiarity of them, tracing every bump and groove, as if he's checking for any damage. The realization dawns on Arthur all at once. It was Charles' who recovered and buried his body. He went and looked for him, found him, carried him to a spot that was beautiful, and peaceful. It was Charles' hands that carved, and engraved a memory of him for the world to see. Charles Smith. 

Suddenly, a high pitched, excited whinny sounds out. Sunflower trots up the slope and approaches Charles. Damn that horse, for all her loveliness, she was always a bit of a devil. Charles' turns towards her, clearly surprised at being approached randomly by a horse at the top of some hill. He is calm and remains squatting, presumably so as not to frighten the strange animal in front of him. Arthur watches him as he extends his hand, leisurely, towards the mare. She nickers and presses her pale pink nose into his open hand. Charles mumbles, just quietly enough that Arthur cannot make out what he's saying, but the tone is tender. Sunflower noses into Charles' bag and he laughs, a joyous sound that rings out and echoes slightly at such a high point. He pulls out a shiny, red apple and offers it to the paint. She graciously accepts and bites into it, munching happily and flicking her tail. 

Sunflower was always fond of Charles. Often, the two of them would both take care of their mares together, making small talk and enjoying some peace and quiet as they brushed away dirt and braided manes and tails. Charles would dote on both the mares, and Arthur pretended not to notice the extra treats that he would slip to his mount when he thought he wasn't looking. And if there was one thing that could endear someone to her, it was food. 

He notices the absence of Taima and his chest tightens, he can't bring himself to think about how painful that loss must have been. He was close to his mare, but Charles and Taima were a different story.

Sunflower snorts as Charles stands now. He frowns at the grave and runs his hands along the horse's neck. The two hold eye contact for a moment, Charles staring hard into his mount's cornflower eyes. He seems to be deep in thought, before shaking his head. He steps away from Sunflower and approaches his own horse. Sunflower follows after him and mouths at his belt, giving him a tug. He turns around and tries to softly remove the belt, but she tugs at him again, and he sighs in resignation.

"Alright, alright," he follows the small mare as she trots towards Arthur.

"What is it girl? Where's your rider, huh?" Charles questions. Arthur is frozen in place, if he runs, Charles will see him, if he stays where he is, Charles will see him. Ghosts can disappear, can he do that? Arthur wills himself to vanish, he clenches his teeth and balls his fists, his knuckles turning white. He's not sure if it's working, but he's out of time. Arthur sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut. What would he say to Charles? What would anyone say in a situation like this? 

Hosea's voice echoes in his head now.

_"You will only be seen when you choose to be."_

He hesitantly opens his eyes, and sees deep brown, almost black, ones staring right through him. Charles looks around, his sleek, wavy black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, is tussled by the wind. The outlaw holds his hands out in front of him, unlike before, they're translucent, even to himself. He gawks for a moment, the sight of his own body is surreal.

Arthur's pulse quickens, as Charles, unknowingly, moves and stands right over him. It's not an unfamiliar sensation, he thinks, recalling the time in Saint Denis when he and Mary Linton tailed her father. She had pulled him close to her, and he felt like he couldn't think, like he was going to crawl right out of his skin from the overwhelming feeling of warmth. The memory of Mary Linton bleeds into the memory of Charles, behind him, positioning his shoulders as he showed him how to use a bow. No, this feeling wasn't a new one. 

"Nobody here. Better just leave you in case anyone comes," Charles says in a low voice, patting Sunflower's hindquarter. He pulls out a canteen and pours some water in his hand offering it to her. 

"Here, before I go," the paint takes the drink and goes to graze. Charles takes one last look around the place, he's tense, and his face is suspicious. He mounts the grey horse he came on, and trots off.

\--

After he's out of sight Arthur clicks his tongue and Sunflower looks up, lazily chewing on a mouthful of grass.

"Do you even need to eat?" he questions, earnestly, before approaching and mounting her. He pats her shoulder and she shakes her head. Sunflower fades to a state of transparency beneath him. 

Arthur looks at Charles' tracks. A part of him feels silly, following after Charles when he could, theoretically speaking, do just about whatever the hell he pleased, but something about the encounter felt deliberate, maybe even fated, though he felt ridiculous even entertaining that idea.

He follows them down the road.

\--

Charles' tracks lead them down towards Valentine and split off the trail towards a hidden wooded area. Smoke can be seen rising from the trees, and Arthur gathers that he's probably made camp for the night. He dismounts, grabs the journal from the saddlebag, and sends Sunflower off to graze. He drifts through the woods, his footsteps echo eerily, and branches pass through him in this state. He catches sight of the camp and sits down outside of it.

Charles' looks up at the noise, he rises slowly to his feet, looks in the forest, and after a moment, sits back down, satisfied that he's safe. He's roasting a rabbit over the fire, carefully rotating it, not like Arthur who would just char his meat to hell. 

Arthur stares at the man. He watches his movements as he prepares his meal, watches his expressions. His hand scratches in the new journal, sketches of Charles, and the fire, the horses, his own grave. He taps his charcoal gently against his lip, pondering what to mark down next. 

_Charles Smith is alive and well. I suspect he's the one who found my body and buried it. Never thought I'd write a sentence like that. I've decided to stay with him awhile, perhaps the comforts of old friends and familiarity in a very new world is what's compelling me._

He accompanies this short entry with a quick scribble of the flower wreath that Charles had brought. The idea of the other man collecting flowers and carefully weaving them together tugged on something within Arthur's chest. He sets the journal next to him. Charles is eating now, and Arthur's mouth waters at the smell. He thinks back to Sunflower's appetite and genuinely wonders whether or not he needs to partake in the more earthly experiences of humanity. 

He feels a bit childish, but internally calls out to Hosea.

 _"Hosea, can you, uh, can you hear this?"_ Arthur awkwardly gestures towards the sky. At first there's no response, and even though there was nobody to bear witness to the action, save for maybe a squirrel, he feels his ears heat with embarrassment. 

 _"Hello, Arthur,"_ Hosea's voice rings clearly in his head and he startles slightly, though he's still not visible, the shifting of his body rustles the brush about him. Charles looks up again and reaches for his bow. He knocks an arrow and walks toward the edge of his camp. He's about five feet from Arthur, his gaze is fixed towards his direction. Even though Arthur knows he can't be seen, he's still frozen in his spot from the intensity of the gaze alone. Charles' eyes narrow and slowly backs away. He gently pats the neck of his horse, rubbing his ears and shushing him. The steed, spooked by the noise, settles and nuzzles his cheek. He returns to his seat by the fire, packing away the rest of the rabbit for later.

_"Damn you, you scared me!"_

_"A ghost afraid of me, should I be flattered or disappointed in you?"_ Arthur shakes his head and rubs at his temples. He waves his hand like he's shooing a fly.

_"Just listen, will you? Do I need to eat or, uh, sleep?"_

_"Need to? No. But, you might find it makes certain things easier. Allows you to more consciously choose who you appear to and all that, but of course you won't die, because you're already dead, son. Unless we need to cover that again?"_ Laughter echoes in Arthur's head and he scowls. He pauses a moment and purses his lips.

_"Say, can you, uh, hear all my thoughts?"_

_"No, Arthur, only when you reach out to me. Why, something I should worry about, hmm?"_ The teasing tone colors Arthur's cheeks, maybe he didn't miss Hosea as bad as he thought he did.

_"Goodbye, Hosea."_

_"Alright, Arthur."_

\--

Charles' fire grows dim and the man settles onto his bed roll, keeping his bow and a pistol close to him. Arthur watches him, his breathing slows and becomes rhythmic, his chest rising and falling at a steady pace. He rises and finds his way back to Sunflower. She is lying in the meadow by the small patch of trees. He lies next to her, props his arms behind his head, and crosses his feet. He looks up at the stars, watching them twinkle against the inky swirls of the night sky. The soft snorts of his mare soothe him, her warmth pleasant with the cold that the night brings near the Grizzlies, even on summer evenings. Eventually, a tired feeling begins to weigh on him, his eyelids drooping. He allows himself to float off to sleep, feeling comfortable under the expanse of the heavens above.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested in talking rdr with me, my tumblr is unruly-son.tumblr.com : )


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has not one, but two alarming encounters.

_"Arthur?"_

Arthur's hand instinctively grabbed for his gun, the warmth of his fingers reflexively curling around the coolness of the trigger. _That voice._ His heart fell into his stomach, an overwhelming wave of nausea overtaking him. The familiar, burning heaviness and frantic gasping, that had haunted him in his last moments, gradually wriggled it's way back inside. He wheezed, a high-pitched whistle coming from his throat which was now swollen and sore. Arthur hadn't been aware he was standing until he crumpled, a particularly violent _whoop_ wracking itself through him, and he dropped to his hands and knees. Sweat gathered on his brow and dripped down the bridge of his nose. 

Slowly, the flare-up subsided leaving him shaking, tears stung the inner corners of his eyes as he finally forced himself to open them. He stared at the black boots in front of him, and the fancy vaquero spurs, caked in a mixture of mud, and blood, and shit. Yes, _he_ always did like to play up the image of a fine and cultured gentleman, a rogue-ish hero, didn't he? Oh, but he wasn't any better than the rest of them, and the filth would always be there to remind him of that. 

_"Arthur?"_

Dutch Van Der Linde. The man sat a mere foot or two away, and his normally near immaculate clothing was torn and dirtied. His hair was tousled and greasy, hanging about his face in limp stringy clumps. They were both utterly surrounded by pitch darkness, no other discernable shapes except for the two of them. There was no horizon, no telling where the sky and ground met, just inky emptiness. 

Dutch's face was pallid, almost glowing a sickly white amidst the blackness that seemed to swallow them whole. His eyes were sunken, ringed with dark circles, and they shone glassy with tears as he stared straight ahead. It was unblinking, save for a slight periodic twitch of his eyelids. A small trail of blood trickled from the edge of his hairline down the side of his cheek. His appearance unnerved Arthur. Of course, his simple presence was enough to shake him, but the state of him? Dutch was as pathetic as he had been, as he was again. He barked a cough, spitting the foul concoction of blood and infection to the side. 

_"Arthur?"_

The older man's voice was barely more than a feeble whisper. A dam of rage that Arthur had been suppressing broke then, washing over him. The muscles in his neck pulled taught, and his jaw clenched hard enough to cause his teeth to ache. 

"What? Dammnit all, what the hell do _you_ want?" He all but snarled, the words forcing themselves through his throat from the pit of his stomach. He rose to his knees and grabbed Dutch by the collar, his knuckles going white as he began to shake him. There was no response, no change in the other's expression. He just stared. He just goddamn stared.

"Say something!" Arthur roared, followed by another fit of coughing, his lungs chastising him for the effort of the action. A wail bubbled from the raw flesh of his larynx, and he buried his face into Dutch's chest and wept, wept like a child until he had soaked the red vest his forehead rested on with warm tears. 

_"Arthur?"_

Arthur raised his head, his eyes bright red and puffy as he stared up at Dutch. His mentor, his father, his friend, the man who let him die alone, a stranger. Dutch's pupils darted back as forth as he continued to just peer out into the darkness as if he were in a trance. 

_"Hosea?"_

\--

"Hey, son, you alright there?" An unfamiliar voice roused Arthur from his groggy state. His head was pounding and his face was itchy and uncomfortably damp. "Saw you flailing from the trail. You look like you was having a night terror. Take it easy, okay?" An old man spoke softly to him and patted Arthur's shoulder as he struggled to sit up.

"Thanks, mister," Arthur mumbled, cradling his head in his hands. The man mounted his horse and gave Arthur a small wave of acknowledgment before riding off, disappearing into the trees. Arthur took a small breath, and then a larger one of relief when he found his chest didn't ache as he did. Just his luck that he'd have nightmares even as a ghost. Or whatever the hell that was. He considered, briefly, asking Hosea about it, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to. Instead, he pulled out his journal and took a moment to roughly sketch what Dutch's face had looked like. He stared at the drawing for a minute, before gently closing the small book and pocketing it. He stood up now, cracking his back. He wondered why the man had been able to see him. Maybe it was some sort of defense mechanism, wanting him to get the hell out of wherever he'd been. In any case, he was thankful. 

His eyes widened suddenly and he swore under his breath. He'd forgotten all about Charles. The man was probably miles away now. He didn't dawdle when he traveled. Arthur would have time to sort through all this nonsense later, but for the time being, he needed to catch up to his unaware companion.

He hastily approached Sunflower who was nosing at a patch of wild carrot plants and patted her shoulder before situating himself in his saddle. He would head back towards the campsite Charles had set up last night. When he got there, the camp had indeed been torn down, but the embers still smoldered slightly beneath the charred logs. The fire had been put out recently which meant he hopefully wouldn't be too far behind. Arthur's eyes surveyed the area for any sign of hoofprints, and upon seeing faint tracks, he quickly took to following them.

\--

Sunflower's powerful muscles worked beneath him at a steady pace as he followed the trail ahead of him. From the looks of it, it seemed that Charles was headed southwest, maybe towards Strawberry or some other place in West Elizabeth, maybe beyond. Arthur didn't worry himself too much with the destination, he just wanted to make sure he didn't lose him. The two continued for a bit, the traces becoming more obvious as they went. Some fresh horse droppings and deeper hoofprints became visible the longer they traveled. The sun shone down, tickling Arthur's neck with a gentle warmth. The breeze was cool and pleasant, and the earthy smell of wet dirt and damp leaves, all covered in morning dew, overtook his senses. He sighed, contented. It had been so long since he could smell anything other than the acrid odor of sickness or the coppery metallic of blood. Being able to breathe easy was no small gift, and he didn't reckon he'd ever take it for granted again. 

Caught up in his own musings, Arthur almost missed when Charles' mount's prints veered off the path. 

"Woah, girl, easy," he cooed to the small mare, and pulled in the reins slowing her pace slightly, turning her to follow the tracks. Their forms flickered as they gradually vanished from the mortal eye, melting like the last remnants of snow on a spring afternoon. They were close now, he could feel it. They followed a narrow route, almost grown over with thick underbrush and stray tree branches reaching out just waiting to nick some poor, unsuspecting hat. Arthur was damn glad he was incorporeal, or else this would have been a real pain in the ass. He puzzled himself over why Charles would leave the trail again so soon. He couldn't be camping, but maybe he was hunting? No, that didn't make sense either, he'd had leftovers from last night, he wouldn't need to kill anything else, and he certainly wasn't one to waste food or kill without need. 

A Nokota stallion, Charles', to be exact, came into view. The horse was hitched to a tree and happily grazing away. He jumped down from Sunflower and gave her flank a pat before venturing further on foot. He spotted bootprints and followed them down to a secluded riverbank. The mellow rush of moving water complimented the various chatter made by the squirrels and birds that bustled about. Charles was kneeling by the water's edge, filling two canteens. A small feeling of relief settled over Arthur. He sat on a fallen tree as Charles placed the two now full canteens by a rock. 

He whistled to himself and took out his journal to capture the beautiful spot to appreciate later. He fished a small piece of charcoal out of his pants pocket and quickly scratched down the outline of the river. When he glanced up again to take in the details of the stream he was met with an unexpected sight. Charles was as naked as the day he was born, his clothes neatly folded and boots set out next to his canteens. Arthur froze, like deer who had wandered into the path of an oncoming stagecoach. It wasn't like he was a stranger to nudity, no, in fact, he was quite accustomed to it, and had even seen Charles in various states of dress before, but something about this was different. He cleared his throat, letting out a small embarrassed cough. Charles swiftly turned around, and Arthur couldn't help the soft gasp that escaped him.

"Who's there?" Charles barked. Arthur just sat there, stock still as Charles studied the riverbank, searching for the presence of an intruder. Carefully, Arthur shifted his gaze from Charles to himself. He was still transparent, thank god for small favors.

"I heard you whistling," Charles spoke in a low tone, "show yourself." He discreetly reached for his pile of clothes and pulled a knife. Arthur remained silent, barely even daring to breathe. Charles crept towards where he sat, and raised his head slightly, listening. They both stayed there for a while, neither of them moving. Arthur felt like his heart was going to explode out of his chest, and he was pretty sure he was about to prove Hosea wrong about not being able to die again, when finally Charles moved away and put his knife down, swearing to himself. Arthur slumped over in relief. 

Charles took once last look around before wading into the river. The water was clear, tinted a blue-ish green and danced over the assorted greys, browns, and blacks of the smooth river stones that made up the bed. He untied his hair, the dark waves cascading over his broad shoulders like a waterfall. He dunked his head and roughly scrubbed at the mass of hair, before coming up again. He wrung out the long tangles and worked his fingers through them before taming them into a tight braid. 

There wasn't anything elegant about this, nothing alluring, it was just a man who wanted to get as clean as he could in as little time possible. Arthur had been there many times before. It was almost gross in a way. You get so sick of smelling like the horses, and old blood, and cigar smoke, and stale sweat that you just have to scrub with reckless abandon until you can stomach yourself again. However, despite knowing this, Arthur couldn't help but sneak a glance. He couldn't help the way his damn ears were burning, or the blotchy redness that inched its way across his cheeks. He shifted, adjusting his position on the stump and purposefully willed himself to look the opposite way. 

He shook his head, he was acting like some fool boy. He'd go back to drawing, that's what he'd set down to do anyway. His eyes traced the treeline, searching for any points of interest. A flash of movement caught his eye, and Arthur got to his feet instinctively. He squinted into the bushes, watching intently, his hand moving to his holster. The wildlife had since gone quiet, and there was a heavy silence that settled over the forest. 

Arthur spared a glance towards Charles who was still washing away, the rush of the river water likely overpowering the concerning lack of noise. Arthur was just turning his head to once again scan the area when there was a sudden uproar. From the scrub brush and undergrowth, as though it had spawned out of nowhere, a mountain cat burst forward. The world around Arthur slowed, almost to a stop. Terror gripped his stomach like a vice, and without thinking, he was rushing forward too. He drew his pistol as he placed himself between the creature and Charles. In a panic, he squeezed the trigger, the bullet grazing the cat's neck, blood and fur trailing after it. Another round, this one lodging itself between two amber snake-slit eyes. 

The predator dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. Blood already pooling around its head, the expression frozen in a fierce snarl. Arthur's knees felt weak, and the hot rush of adrenaline still coursed through him, his limbs feeling light and loose. His breath came in gasps, and he clutched at his chest. Hearing a splash behind him, he turned around.

"Arthur?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I updated this. I'd lost inspiration because I felt the whole idea didn't make too much sense, but then I remembered that doesn't matter and I can do whatever I want. : )


End file.
